The Highway of Death

Earl Bishop Downer

• Publisher: Burtyrki Books
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9781839742866
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: British History
• Index: History

The Highway of Death, first published in 1916, is the chilling account of the Austro-Hungarian invasion of Serbia (a tragic, largely forgotten aspect of the First World War) as viewed by American Red Cross surgeon Earl Bishop Downer. Based in Belgrade, he describes the bitter back-and-forth fighting for control of this capitol city, the devastating artillery barrages, the doctors and nurses trying to treat the endless stream of wounded combatants, and a typhus epidemic that ravaged soldiers and civilians alike. Included are 34 pages of illustrations.

 

1. Ocean Travel in War Times

Imagination is a poor artist and dimly portrays the unprecedented situation as it exists in the “land of blood and death.” It is necessary that the senses be stirred by the smell of smoke and the shock of mighty guns, the rocking of the earth under the measured tread of grim legions of warriors as they trundle along like mighty machines, with a single purpose—to bleed, to die, or to vanquish.

The human mind is a strange composition; it is a physiological fact that we crave excitement. One readily tires of the monotony of daily routine, and, therefore, it can easily be perceived why the laws of God and mankind are broken. We are by nature transgressive. Some of our offenses are trifling, others are grave; but, small or great, we must pay the price. So, all through the gamut of human experience this condition prevails.

Everyone thrills as the home regiment swings into the main thoroughfare to the strains of martial music. We thrill at reading the “Charge of the Light Brigade,” and never tire of the life history of Washington, Lincoln, or Grant; nor the glory of this or that hero who has fallen upon the field of battle. In Europe I have seen all this glory, pomp, and valor snuffed out, as the light of a candle, by the bursting of one 42-centimeter shell.

My first sensation of war came when but a short distance from the land I love, and would that it may never meet what I know to be the fate of Belgium, Poland, and Serbia. It was high noon, February the sixteenth, 1915, the good ship “Critic” was rolling heavily in a trough of angry waters, when, above the whirr of vicious winds, the challenge shot of His Majesty’s ship, the “Chester,” was hurled across our bow, causing us to heave to. We rushed on deck, a thousand questions suggesting themselves as we made our way forward to ascertain, if possible, the reason for this interruption of our voyage of mercy. Having satisfied His Majesty’s officers as to our purpose and identity, we were permitted to proceed.

After battling with a terrific storm lasting seven days, which eventually accumulated with horrible intensity into one gigantic wave, sweeping over the entire boat from bow to stern, carrying off several of the life-boats and a portion of the captain’s bridge, our mental equanimity was again disturbed. However, this proved to be a very welcome interruption, since the two cruisers that steamed alongside, we were informed, were to be our escort and guaranty of safety on our perilous journey.

Having entered the outer harbor of Gibraltar, two weeks from New York, our cruiser consorts, with cheery farewell, left us to continue to the Customs within the inner harbor. Here we found ourselves under arrest, and during seven days fretted impatiently under surveillance, practically prisoners of war.

From the decks we could see the beautiful Spanish shore, with its tree-fringed lines of tropical and semitropical foliage; could gaze up the almost perpendicular side of old Gibraltar. They told us that behind some of the innocent-looking houses, resting on the surface of this mighty fortress, lurked the great, monster guns for which Gibraltar is justly famous.

But even this deadly menace is not sufficient to keep out that treacherous shark of the deep, the submarine. To protect the vessels in the harbor against this terrible monster of the deep, long, narrow slips had been built and across the end of each are large folding gates of steel extending down into the water about twenty feet. Our ship was placed in one of these slips and the gates closed, eliminating any danger that might exist from submarines or their torpedoes.

As shore leave was not granted, we were sorely tried to overcome the monotony of the situation. I have a dim recollection of fishing over the stern of the vessel the major portion of the day.

After the contraband, which was the cause of our vessel having been placed in arrest, was removed, our personnel examined, clearance papers were given, and we were allowed to proceed with a parting warning to be on the lookout for hostile submarines that infest the Mediterranean.

So, accordingly, all the lights on board were extinguished, and, with majestic motion, the stately ship glided out on the broad bosom of the ocean, silently, stealthily, slowly steaming the rest of her way in darkness. Cautiously this giant leviathan threaded her way out of the harbor, through the mazes of mine fields, ever following the little pilot upon which her very life depended. Some of these great engines of destruction had broken their anchors and were floating about aimlessly; for these a constant lookout was kept; a sharpshooter was stationed forward with a high-powered gun, and as these floating mines came in the path of the vessel they were either sunk or exploded by a well-directed shot from the captain’s bridge.

Our journey from Gibraltar to Naples was made without escort. The cabin windows were heavily screened, so that no light could show from our vessel; there were no colors flying from the masthead, and all other marks of identification had been removed; grim facts keeping ever in the minds of the passengers the seriousness of the situation.

All the larger and better class of transatlantic merchant marines had been commandeered by their respective governments, thus leaving to the traveler only a small type of vessel such as used in coastwise shipping in time of peace, and, barring the dangers concomitant with modern warfare, are unseaworthy for a transatlantic cruise. Further, the experienced seamen have been impressed into the service of the various belligerent nations, leaving only inexperienced crews, usually boys, and these insufficient in numbers to man these small vessels.

After a voyage consuming twenty-two days, the much battered “Critic” put into the harbor at Naples, from which I entrained to Brindisi, knowing that I must make haste, as the situation in Serbia was fast becoming critical.

Prom Brindisi eastward, everything changes from occidental to oriental. Here it was necessary to board a Greek tramp steamer. Only those who have traveled upon such an outfit can appreciate the luxury of modern ocean travel. The Greek tramp travels slowly and puts in at every little “jerkwater” port in the Greek archipelago, to load and unload cargo and passengers. A wild, motley crew travels over this route, inhabitants from the mountains of Albania and Montenegro, and wild, buccaneer sort of men from lonely Greek islands. Although of forbidding aspect, they are nevertheless picturesque, as they walk about the decks, with their high-pointed hats made of sheepskin and their queer-shaped shoes, the sharp toes pointing up, surmounted with a tufted ball. Around each waist is wound yards upon yards of bright-colored cloth, serving as a belt, while projecting therefrom are long pistols of heavy caliber and fancy-carved daggers.

Lying about on deck, under foot, growling and showing their fangs as one approached them, were several mangy, mongrel dogs resembling closely the wolf-hound, reflecting the same vicious, fighting attitude of their masters. This particular group were exceedingly busy, as each seemed to have troubles of his own, like the Biblical dog, their excuse seeming to be that while fighting fleas they would forget they were dogs, and forcibly reminded me of that old song of our college days, “Nero, my dog, has fleas.”

My cabin, which was supposed to be first-class, was situated well forward near the “livery stables.” Upon entering this “modern apartment” I found several regiments of fleas drawn up in battle array, in close formation. This maneuver on their part was necessary in order that they might maintain their equilibrium, as the washstand, which they had chosen for the first line trenches, was so narrow. They were equipped with Skodas, 42-centimeter guns, and all other modern weapons of warfare. I dubbed them the “Allies.” It could plainly be seen that they considered me the common enemy. The enemy’s territory was promptly invaded, and I fell back for reinforcements, consisting of several varieties of insect powder which was liberally applied, after which I tackled the “Allies’” position, prepared to smite them hip and thigh. After a series of flanking attacks, heavy losses being sustained on both sides, a portion of their territory, namely, the bunk, was captured; but, of course, sleep was out of the question, as the “Allies” kept up their terrific bombardment all night, and overhead could be heard the drone of the mosquito airplane squad.

As the fleas were so numerous on this tramp steamer, I was glad to take refuge on a French ammunition boat at Piraeus, whose cargo consisted of tons of explosives consigned to the Island of Lemnos situated near Saloniki. Our course lay through a sea studded with rocks and islands where a steamer could easily go aground; had such a catastrophe occurred, there would have been nothing left of what had been a fine French boat. Tempting Providence, as it were, she steamed within twelve miles of the Dardanelles, so close that we could hear the distant booming of the cannons. At Saloniki, Greece, the last leg of our journey, by water, was completed.

From ancient times down to the present day, Saloniki has been nothing more or less than a gateway, a huge meeting place for all nations. It is probably the most cosmopolitan city in the world; it belongs to all nations and no nation; it is really the only port of Serbia. Saloniki even has a language of its own, a tongue known as Vladino, a sort of Hispaniate argot, which is spoken by a majority of the native population. It is, and always has been, a city of refugees, crowded with beggars of all description.

2. Typhus and its Frightful Ravages

Upon arrival at Saloniki, we found the bubonic plague raging and heard of the terrible conditions existing in Serbia, where the deadly typhus was threatening to wipe out the entire population. Out of eighteen American Red Cross doctors and nurses sent there, thirteen had contracted typhus. One had died, and the twelve had been ordered home, as it takes six months or longer to convalesce from typhus, and they could recover more rapidly under the congenial surroundings of home life. A brief statement will show the bravery of this little band of workers:

Having endured terrible hardships and privations for four months, and almost losing their lives from typhus, they emphatically refused to go home, and advanced the argument that after recovering they would be immune from further attacks, while new ones coming in would be spared a similar experience. One of the worst features of typhus is the profound action it has on the heart. A convalescent is apt to die instantly upon the slightest exertion from acute dilatation of the heart muscles.

After spending one night in Saloniki, we entrained for the little town of Gevgelia, about forty miles distant. The compartments had just been fumigated with formaldehyde, and this, with a profusion of iodoform, which had spilled out of freight cars along the tracks, made the journey very unpleasant, causing a general sneezing and watering of the eyes.

Everywhere about the station were Red Cross emblems and great stores of Red Cross supplies, which had been shipped into Serbia, and I am very proud to say that the supplies sent from the Red Cross of America were by no means the least. Every freight train that entered Serbia was loaded with food and supplies, donated by private individuals from nearly every nation in the world. There were missions from England, Denmark, Greece and various other nations, which were not connected with the Red Cross, and did not know where they would be stationed, but they were ready to give their services and their lives, if necessary, for the benefit of humanity. One Greek doctor told us that an entire mission of ten had died from typhus in Serbia and his mission was going to replace the martyrs.

The English were discussing the condition of Lady Paget, who had contracted typhus at Scoplia, and each had his proposed method of handling the situation. But, in spite of the depressing stories which drifted into that little station that morning before the departure of our train, all were happy, for, indeed, such was the optimism, it seemed more like a picnic party embarking on a camping trip. They knew the situation was desperate, and that breakers were ahead; but, little did they dream that only one-half, or, perhaps a third, would ever return—the unfortunates > to occupy a grave on some lonely hill, their remains even probably never returned to their native country, the American quarantine laws being such that, dying in a foreign country, their bodies could not be returned within one year.

Typhus is an acute, infectious, exanthematous disease, of great virulence, terrible in its intensity, spread by means of a common carrier, the louse (Pediculus vestimenti), which is smaller than the common “garden variety” of body louse (Pediculus corporis) seen in this country. Its natural habitat is the clothing of the individual, particularly the seams of the underwear, where it lurks in concealment. From this vantage point it reaches out and bites the victim. One bite from an infected louse is usually sufficient to produce typhus. In Serbia nearly everyone is infested by the louse, but, as all lice are not infected by typhus, some of the Serbians have escaped. Our method of protection was as follows: to bathe twice a day; to institute a rigid search through the underwear, particular attention being paid to the seams, and upon discovering a louse to crush it between the blades of a pair of forceps, and before donning our clothing we would sprinkle liberally upon them large quantities of naphthaline.

Typhus is marked by early prostration and decided delirium, which comes on within twenty-four hours after the onset of the disease and remains until the crisis, which is seven to nine days, after which the patient dies or goes on to a sequela whereby the nervous system is badly involved, the special senses, the motor and sensory nerves. Typhus leaves the mental condition disturbed for months after the decline of the fever. It is the custom to excuse erratic action on the part of a convalescent by saying, “He had typhus.” The muscular system furnished an interesting type of the sequelae of the disease; the muscles would become hard and rigid with neuralgic pain, which condition would usually persist for several months, and then relax, but sometimes it would not and contractures would develop, drawing the limbs into horrible, unsightly deformities, the member affected becoming absolutely useless, followed by atrophy through disuse, leaving, what was once a splendid specimen of muscular development, nothing but bone covered with flaccid, shrunken, soft tissues.

The neuralgic pains—sharp, darting, and quite knife-like in character—were referred over the entire body, but seemed to center with terrible, agonizing intensity in the marrow of the long bones, particularly the shin bones, which the most powerful opiate failed to check, the cries of pain which issued from the lips of the victim wringing pity from our hearts, as we knew we could not relieve them.

Terrible in their results were the sequelae appearing in the extremities, whereby the blood would clot, causing thrombosis, in turn cutting off the blood-supply to the affected member, thereby depriving it of proper nourishment, with the result that large, infected ulcers would appear in which great masses of black, foul-smelling tissues would slough off, leaving the bones of the limbs exposed. More unfortunate still were those who suffered from post-typhus gangrene.

In Saloniki we used insect powder for the first time. Our underclothing was sprinkled liberally, great care being taken to get it into the seams of the garments. From the feeling produced from the insect powder, plus the fleabites we had already suffered, we experienced the sensation of being covered with lice.

Upon arrival at the Greco-Serbian border, we found a double quarantine existed. Greece was trying to protect herself against typhus from Serbia and Serbia was fighting against bubonic plague from Greece. The Serbs had rigged up a steam sterilizer which was a mere apology; it must have been one of the original inventions of this sort. They took one blanket from our party, leaving the rest of the baggage untouched; and, as only one side of the blanket was moist when it was returned, we assumed they had sterilized only one side. Later we experimented with the same type of sterilizer in our hospital at Gevgelia. We placed a blanket in it, containing a louse, and, upon removing the blanket, found that the louse was still alive after an application of steam for thirty minutes.

The third-class passengers were taken out of the coaches and put through a process just as inefficient, the treatment consisting of a little insect powder sprinkled over the outside of their clothing. When a country is so lax at its border, one may reasonably assume that it is just as unsanitary in the interior, and it is small wonder the typhus spread like wildfire, taking as toll thousands of lives. The laxity on the Greek border was responsible for the spread of the plague in that country. Its ravages, however, were not so widespread as in Serbia.

Typhus is a winter disease, and is due to unsanitary conditions and easily spread by the louse in overcrowded camps. It disappears during the summer months, as it is at this season that the Serb discards the suit of underwear that he has worn all winter, and which, at the ...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• Preface
• 1. Ocean Travel in War Times
• 2. Typhus and its Frightful Ravages
• 3. What War and Pestilence Does to a City
• 4. Death’s Hill
• 5. The Most Besieged Town of the World
• 6. Peasant Soldiers of Serbia
• 7. Committadjii, The Bandit Heroes of the Balkans
• 8. Mistaken for an Austrian Spy
• 9. Pastimes of the Wounded
• 10. Preparation for a Great Battle
• 11. The Fall of Belgrade
• 12. The Aftermath
• 13. Why Did the Teutons Invade Serbia?
• 14. Travel Through Various War Zones
• Illustrations